Homeland

by Fernando Aramburu

  “Txato, you just notice things like that.”

  The bar is L-shaped. Bittori took a place at the shortest side, her back to the entrance. Failing to get the bartender’s attention, she looked around. The floor with its two-colored tiles, the fan hanging from the ceiling, the shelves with rows of bottles. Except for a couple of details, the bar looked the same as it always had. It was the same as it was when Bittori would come in to buy her children popsicles. The unforgettable lemon and orange popsicles from the Pagoeta, which were nothing more than fruit drinks frozen in molds with a stick in them.

  “Barely anything’s changed, I swear. The tables where you men played cards are right where they were up against the wall moldings. There is no foosball, no pinball machine like the one that made so much noise, but there is a slot machine. One of the few new things I saw. Oh, and the struggle for the prisoners over the bar. Soccer posters and pictures of fishing boats instead of the old bullfighting posters. It seems the business is in the hands of the son.

  Finally he came over to her: “What’ll it be?”

  She vainly tried to meet his gaze. The kid, thirty-three, but for her a kid, earring in one ear, a tuft of hair hanging down the back of his neck, was still busy with the rag, but not as far off, six or eight feet, as he was before but right in front of Bittori. To force him to speak, she asked if they had machine-dispensed decaf. They did. The others picked up their conversations again. Bittori did not identify their faces. But that man with the white hair, could he by any chance be…?

  “I don’t doubt for a second that all of them were thinking the same thing. That’s Txato’s wife. When I left, I really wanted to turn my face toward them and calmly announce from the door: I’m Bittori, is there some problem? Can’t I be in my own hometown?”

  Do not show bitterness. Do not cry in public. Look everyone in the eye, look straight into cameras. She promised herself that in the funeral parlor, with Txato in the box.

  “What do I owe you?”

  Without raising his eyes, the barman named a sum. Not wanting to dig around in her purse, Bittori paid him with a ten-peseta note. As she waited for her change, she shifted toward the angle in the L. There it was. What? The coin bank. On the front part, a sticker: Dispersiorik ez. Burning inside her was an irresistible desire that ran down her arm to the elbow, then to the hand, then to her pinky. Don’t let them see me, don’t let them see me. On the sly, she extended her finger until her nail was grazing the lower part of the bank. Nothing, not even half a second, because she instantly pulled back her finger as if she’d touched fire.

  “Don’t ask me to explain it because I don’t understand it myself. I got carried away.”

  She walked out to the street. Blue sky, cars. Before she reached the corner, she saw her.

  “At first I didn’t recognize her.”

  And when she finally realized who it was, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! She stood there transfixed by the sight and also by a kind of sorrow. I mean paralyzed, totally paralyzed. They went their way, and Bittori was unable to move. Nailed to the ground. But it’s…

  “Let me tell you.”

  Bittori walked up the sunny side of the street, across from which walked a tiny little lady with features like those of the Andes Indians. From Peru or someplace like that. That’s it, that lady was pushing a wheelchair, and in it was seated a woman with her head slightly falling over one shoulder and one hand clenched like those people who can’t open them. The other hand, though, she could move it.

  “Then I realized she was waving to me. In any case, she was shaking her hand near her chest, as if saying hello to me. And she was looking at me, but not directly. Let me see if I can explain it to you. With her head over to one side and a big smile, a violent smile, with a bit of saliva in one corner of her lips and her eyes squinting. At first sight unrecognizable, I swear. It looked as if she were suffering a convulsion, understand? Okay then, it was Arantxa. She’s paralyzed. Don’t ask me what happened to her. I didn’t have the nerve to cross the street and ask.”

  She wasn’t sure if Arantxa was waving hello or if she was signaling her to come close. Her caretaker was too busy pushing to notice. So she wheeled her down the street in no particular hurry, and Bittori, feeling it all deeply, was unable to move until they disappeared.

  “So, Txato, now I’ve told you. And what do you want me to say? I felt sorry. Arantxa for me was always the best person in that family. When she was a little girl, I liked her. The most sensible and normal of all of them, and the only one, as I told you before, who took pity on me and our children.”

  Having picked up the square of plastic and the handkerchief, Bittori made her way to the cemetery’s exit. She strolled around, now this way, now that, always on the lookout so she wouldn’t run into anyone. Near the end of the path, in the hollow between two graves, she saw a female pigeon and a male pigeon all puffed up to court her. Hey! She scared off the birds, stamping hard on the ground.

  16

  SUNDAY MASS

  It’s the same old church bell, but on Sundays, at first light, it doesn’t sound the way it usually does. The peals follow on one another calmly, lazily, as if announcing: neighbors, clang, it’s eight a.m., clang; as far as I’m concerned, clang, you can stay in bed, clang.

  By then Joxian’s been pedaling for three-quarters of an hour along country roads. Where did he say he was going? What difference does it make? For sure it’s to a bar in the heart of Guipúzcoa where they serve fried eggs with ham. All the circuits of the cyclotourism club end with a plate of fried eggs and ham and then back home.

  So it’s eight a.m. The sound of the alarm coincided with one of the last peals of the bell, and Miren, without combing her hair, in her nightie, opened the door for Celeste, who had the courtesy to bring her (and it wasn’t the first time) half a loaf of fresh bread for breakfast.

  “Sweetie, you shouldn’t have bothered.”

  If there are two of them, it’s easier to get Arantxa out of bed. Miren takes charge of the head and the trunk. First, of course, when she raises the shade, she bestows on her daughter a few morning words of tenderness in Basque: egun on, polita, and things like that. Celeste repeats egun on in an Andean accent and takes hold of the legs.

  The instant they begin to move her, Miren starts giving orders: hold on, pull, lift, raise, lower, not to exercise power or to be authoritarian. Why, then? Because she’s afraid Arantxa will fall, and even though it’s never happened, she worries. Her eyes widen, she gets nervous, and often Celeste has no choice but to calm her down.

  “Take it easy, Miren. Now we can raise her up.”

  As usual, they seat her in the wheelchair. Then Celeste went before the mother and daughter, opening doors. Supported by the two women, Arantxa stands up. She’s not lacking strength in her legs. What is the problem? She has a stiffened foot. Dr. Ulacia predicted that within two or three years, Arantxa, either using a cane or supported by another person, would be able to take a few steps. She emphatically refuses to reject the hope of seeing her walk someday inside the house.

  They sat her on the toilet seat; immediately after, on her special chair, under the shower. And Celeste took charge of soaping and rinsing her, because she’s better at it and because she’s more patient, and because she’s, how to say it?, gentler, something Miren wasn’t completely aware of until Arantxa, one day, told her, using her iPad: “I want Celeste to shower me from now on.”

  “Why?”

  She typed again: “Because you’re too rough.”

  She has no voice. Sometimes you can guess from the quivering of her lips that she’s trying, pushing but always in the end frustrated when her attempts at language fail. There is an unbridgeable gap between the strain of her facial muscles and actually emitting comprehensible sounds. Even so, it’s essential to lavish praise to stimulate Arantxa. That’s what the physiotherapist advises, that’s what the neurologi
st, the director of Rehabilitation Services, and the speech therapist advise:

  “Miren, praise her. Praise her constantly. Praise any attempt Arantxa makes to speak or move on her own.”

  Between Miren (hold her tight, move over there, careful now) and Celeste they dried and dressed her, and Celeste combed her hair while Miren set about preparing breakfast. It’s easy to comb her hair because it’s short. They cut it off without her consent in the hospital. What resistance was she going to put up in those days when the only part of her body she could move was her eyelids?

  Celeste left, the bell rang out ten, then eleven.

  “Okay, let’s go to mass.”

  Arantxa quickly pulls out her iPad. Her mother: “No, I already know what you’re going to tell me.”

  And sure enough she puts it in writing: “I’m an atheist.”

  “Let’s not get started with that again. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to pray. But don’t think that you’re going to stay here alone or that I’m going to miss Sunday mass because of one of your whims. You can go to perdition as well in church as at home.”

  She snatched away the iPad, because it’s getting late, she said, and wheeled her rapidly down the street, the mother in a bad mood, the daughter in a bad mood, but Miren has a reason. If she doesn’t get to the church early she may find her place, at the end of a pew, next to a column, taken. She puts Arantxa in front of the column, at her side; that way, the wheelchair gets in no one’s way, she’s got her daughter protected from drafts, and she can converse perfectly well, without craning her neck, with the statue of Ignatius of Loyola which is close by. Where? Halfway along the wall, resting on a corbel. To tell the truth, as a general rule, what the priest says matters very little to Miren, and besides, she knows the mass by heart. But speaking with Ignatius, making him promises, proposing deals, begging him, reproaching him (there are days when she tears him to shreds), is very important to her. She’s got twice as much confidence in him as she does in Joxian.

  In sum, what she will not under any circumstance do is to sit with Arantxa in the first rows of pews. Never, never, never. She still blushes thinking about that Sunday, how embarrassing. The first time she had no idea where to place the wheelchair. In the center aisle? Bad idea. So she moved farther to the front than anyone else, thinking that since no one would be walking there, the chair would get in no one’s way. God, did she learn the hard way! Arantxa just out of the hospital, Miren harboring the illusion of a miracle. But Jesus took the daughter of Jairus by the hand and said, “Little girl, I say to you, get up.” Something like that, but this girl was a paralytic, not dead. Not the least of the problems was that Don Serapio took it upon himself to speak into the microphone to greet Arantxa before mass. And then, during the sermon, he made her an example of our Lord God’s infinite goodness. To Miren, those words did not seem improper. The church was fairly crowded, all people they knew, and a bit of consolation and encouragement and being singled out didn’t hurt, right?, and by the way, maybe the unbelieving daughter might recover her faith.

  Then came the moment for Holy Communion, and what does Don Serapio do? The man is a meddler. Well, with all solemnity he comes down the three steps that separate the altar from the pews and comes over to Arantxa full of benevolence, seriously, even he was carried away with emotion, and has her take communion. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! But she hadn’t made her confession. But she doesn’t believe in God. Let’s just see if, stubborn as she is, she spits out the host. And what if she chokes? Anyway, after mass, on the way home, Arantxa opened her mouth and there, stuck to her tongue, was the softened host. Okay. What to do then with the Body of Christ? Nothing. Miren carefully took the moist wafer and put it in her own mouth. She closed her eyes right there on the sidewalk, muttered a short prayer, and that was her second communion of the day. What else could she do?

  She found her usual place unoccupied. Ignatius this, Ignatius that. Joxe Mari, the poor boy, so far away, and all he did was fight for Euskal Herria and you know it. The girl, well, you see the fix I’m in here. And the youngest doesn’t visit or call. At her side, Arantxa either slept or pretended to sleep as a form of protest. I swear! Since she can’t shout…And if people see her, so what? May the blessing of God Almighty, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, descend upon you. The mass had gone by in a flash. She waited for people to leave the church. How slow some of them are, damn it. With the church empty, she got to the sacristy. And Arantxa? Well, it’s no tragedy if she’s alone for five minutes.

  She got right to the point: “My nerves are shot, Father. I can’t sleep a wink at night. I sense that she’s come to make trouble, that’s for sure, to destroy us. We’re victims of the state and now we’re victims of the victims. We’re getting it from all sides.”

  Finally, she told him her request. That he speak with her, that he please find out what her intentions were in coming to the town every day, that he convince her not to leave San Sebastián.

  The priest, a bit too familiar, put a hand on her shoulder and simultaneously gave her a blast of halitosis: “Don’t worry, Miren. I’ll take care of it.”

  17

  A LITTLE WALK

  It’s nice to have a son who, despite all his many and important concerns, sets aside for his mother the morning of a workday. Here he comes, handsome, even if his shoes don’t match his outfit. Taste, I mean good taste in clothes, he just doesn’t have it. Some people’s sons become terrorists. Mine became a doctor. Why not say it when it’s the truth? Forty-eight years old, good position, owns his own house, but still no wife or children. Alone, always alone. He doesn’t even go in for travel like his sister. I wonder if he’s happy, if he enjoys life.

  Mother and son exchange a kiss standing next to the clocks in La Concha, where they agreed to meet. He suggested taking a seat in the coffee shop of the London Hotel. She wouldn’t hear of it. Lock myself away in a restaurant with the fine weather we’re having? Not a chance. Xabier looked around him as if to make sure his mother was right. And yes, the clear sky, the light breeze, and the agreeable autumn temperature were an invitation to take a little walk.

  “What would you like to do?”

  “Let’s go over there.”

  Bittori jabbed her chin toward the Paseo de Miraconcha. She didn’t wait for her son to agree but instead set out in that direction and Xabier immediately took his place at her side.

  “How is it possible you still haven’t found a woman? I can’t figure it out. You’re good-looking, you’re in a prestige profession. What’s missing? You don’t need money. Women have to be flocking after you!”

  “I don’t turn my head to check.”

  “Listen here, and don’t think I’m going to hit the ceiling. But might it be that you prefer men?”

  “What I prefer is my work. Helping patients, curing the sick. things like that.”

  “You brush me off by being evasive.”

  “I’m no good for matrimony, ama. That’s all there is to it. I’m no good for sculpture or rugby, either, but you don’t bother to ask me anything about my relationship with activities like those.”

  She grabbed him by the arm. A mother showing off her son along Miraconcha. On the left, intense traffic, bicyclists going in both directions, people walking and people wearing sports gear out jogging. On the right, the bay, the sea, the familiar aquatic festival of blue and green tones that cheers the eye, with modest surf, waves, small boats, and the marine horizon in the distance.

  The previous evening they’d talked by telephone, so Bittori knew that Xabier had carried out an investigation and was bringing her the results, though she didn’t know what they were. Well, let him talk; she couldn’t stand the suspense.

  “I have to tell you before anything that this is the last time I’ll be doing this. Giving out confidential information about patients could cost me my job. This time I could count on a woman I trust who was the o
ne who gave me the report. But even so, you’ve got to tread lightly when you do things like this.”

  His mother: get to the point and tell me what I asked you to find out. They continued walking (the sea, the white railing, Mount Igueldo in the background), and he begins his story, saying:

  “Two years ago, Arantxa had a stroke. Don’t ask me what the circumstances were because I couldn’t find out anything about them. In the report it states that she was initially admitted to the ICU in a hospital in Palma de Mallorca, so we can assume she was on vacation there when she had the attack. And the problem, I can say with real certainty, was extremely serious. Arantxa suffered what we call locked-in syndrome because of the occlusion of the basilar artery.”

  “I see you’re a doctor.”

  “Okay, calm down, I’ll explain it all. All the blood that goes to the nervous system flows through that artery. You could say that it controls the zone where all the paths that lead to the spinal medulla converge. Damage in that area can deprive the body of all movement. That’s what happened to her, see? Her mind becomes the prisoner of a paralyzed body. And though she can hear and understand, she cannot react. She can only move her eyes and her eyelids.”

  She’s the last person in that family Bittori would wish to suffer anything bad. One day she was walking along the street. Was she already married to the Rentería boy? Yes, but she still had no children. Txato wasn’t taking part any longer in the cyclotourism stages and had stopped playing cards with his friends in the Pagoeta, which really pained the poor guy, even if he would say “Bah, there are worse things.”

  Graffiti had appeared on the walls. One of the many: TXATO TXIBATO, Txato the snitch. Though it rhymed, the intent was to defame and cause fear. Somebody does one thing, someone else does something else, and when the catastrophe that they’ve all caused hits, none of them feels responsible because, after all, I just painted, I just revealed where he lived, I just said a few words to him, sure, offensive words, but only words, fleeting sounds. From one day to the next, many people in the town began to ignore him. And it wasn’t only that they didn’t say hello. That was nothing. They refused even to look at him. Lifelong friends, neighbors, even some children. What could innocent kids know? But of course they listen to the conversations of their parents. She ran into Arantxa on the street. And she didn’t bother to whisper. Good and loud she said it. Anyone nearby would have heard her: “What’s being done to you is a dirty trick, and I don’t go along with it.”